


Wood

by medoroa



Series: Three occasions on which 007 got on his knees [3]
Category: GoldenEye (1995), James Bond (Craig movies), James Bond (Movies)
Genre: Barebacking, Bottom James Bond, Crossover, M/M, Spanking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-05
Updated: 2020-10-05
Packaged: 2021-03-07 01:53:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,197
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26459023
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/medoroa/pseuds/medoroa
Summary: Bond is sent to find and retrieve a retired agent, but luring out a former double-O turns out to require less than conventional means of persuasion.
Relationships: James Bond/Alec Trevelyan
Series: Three occasions on which 007 got on his knees [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2176881
Comments: 4
Kudos: 46





	Wood

**Author's Note:**

> A "006 never defected and ended up meeting Craig Bond" AU crossover. I wrote this imagining _Casino Royale_ -era young cocky Bond and circa 2005 [scruffy Sean Bean](https://yerevasunclair.tumblr.com/post/631437408830980096/).
> 
> For the purpose of this fic, James Bond is a code name.

This was not where Bond had expected to end up three days ago when M ordered him to go fetch a retired double-O from god-knows-where in the world. 

Certainly the MI6 retirement plan was far from generous, considering they were all government employees at the end of the day; however, it was still a substantial sum of money, and Bond knew that once his own time came and he was still alive and kicking by some unfathomable stroke of bad fortune, he would retire to a houseboat in the French Riviera or a bungalow in the Caribbean. Surely, Bond believed, most people with their wits about them would agree with him on this point. 

But instead he found himself still in England, amidst bare rocks and thistles, staring up at a dilapidated vacation home clinging desperately to the steep slopes of a mountainside. 

Only M knew what the man looked like, every piece of information aside his double-O designation struck from the records when he retired. "Green eyes and blond hair," she had said, when she gave him the assignment. "About your height. Who knows how he might be built now." 

"That's it," Bond had replied. "And you mean for me to find him." 

M leaned back in her chair and took a sip of her drink, regarding Bond with her poker face for a beat too long to be neutral. "Well, you are the spy, aren't you," she quipped, tone as dry as the bourbon she favored. 

Bond's instinct was to ask her when, exactly, she had demoted him to errand boy, but he was smart enough to bite his tongue. 

At least Tanner had proven slightly more helpful. "We have a few scraps of intel on his last known alias," he said, handing Bond a manila folder. When Bond opened it, two pieces of paper slipped out and spread on Tanner's desk, each containing about half a paragraph of writing. 

Bond didn't repeat "That's it," but the look he gave Tanner likely spoke as much. "Good luck," Tanner had said, and ducked back behind his screen. 

That was three days ago, and that was how Bond ended up driving his BMW eight-hundred feet up this fell to a car park composed of more cracks than asphalt, before climbing another a five-hundred feet to knock on the wooden door of this run-down cabin, its vertical planks slanting a few degrees to the left. If he hadn't been in the Navy, Bond thought as the seconds passed, he might have become seasick. 

The figure who opened the slanted door was nondescript. He was a man likely a decade Bond's senior, and wore a black V-neck sweater and dark jeans that hung loosely on his frame, making Bond think he had either lost weight recently and not bothered to renew his wardrobe, or that he never much cared about style to begin with. By the unkempt ashy hair falling messily on his nape, and the stubble a week too old to be in fashion, Bond judged the latter. His features were proportional, his jaw strong. Not unhandsome. But also not a face that stood out in a crowd. 

But his eyes were a pale, icy green. 

"Hello," Bond said, plastering a smile to his face. For him, it was a conscious exercise: lift the corners of the mouth, strain the cheeks, squint to hide how his eyes seldom smiled. A useful trick he had learned as a child. 

The man didn't reply, or indeed smile back. Instead he crossed his arms and leaned against the door frame, making Bond shoot a glance sideways to make sure the house wasn't about to slide off the cliffside. 

"My name is Bond." The name was still unfamiliar on his lips. "James Bond. I'm from the Land Registry. Are you Mr. Jon Hartman?" 

"Nay," was the first word out of the man's mouth. The accent was Northern. Bond waited a few seconds, expecting the man to continue, but only heard the distant whistling of wind. 

"I see." Bond made the effort to lift the corners of his lips again, and thought he saw a reaction in the man's face, a slight twitch of the mouth as though something had amused him. But then it was gone, and the man lifted a hand to scratch his beard, looking at Bond with the same bored expression as before. "According to my records," Bond started, breaking the silence between them, "Mr. Hartman is the proprietor of this property." 

"Aye," the man said and pushed his body off the door frame, instead grabbing the knob. "I bought it off 'im five years ago. You must've got some old records. Goodbye then." 

"Sir." Bond lunged his body forward, feigning a touch of panic in his voice. The door stopped just an inch before slamming into his face, and the man looked out from behind it. "I'm terribly sorry," he said, his smile twitching. "But could I bother you for a few more details on this transfer? And perhaps a glass of water; it was quite a hike up here for a pencil pusher such as myself." 

The green eyes ran down his frame, then up again to his face. Bond's cheeks were aching. He couldn't read any other expression on the man's face than indifference, and when the man finally spoke, his tone and words matched his face perfectly. "Suit yourself." 

Bond stammered a "thank you" and followed the man's silhouetted back through the dimly lit, narrow entryway. The house smelled cleaner than he had expected; where his nose anticipated the musty scent of dust and decaying wood, it instead found a crisp odor that reminded him of well-kept Alpine lodges. 

As Bond entered the room at the end of the entryway, the man pulled aside the curtains from the large glass doors leading out to the veranda, illuminating what Bond presumed was the main room of the house. It was spacious, with a kitchenette in one corner, and a set of lounge chairs placed in the middle of the unfinished wood floor. Danish modern, Bond thought. The low rumbling of a generator sounded somewhere in the background. A laptop sat on the sofa table. 

"What do you do for a living, Mr...?" 

The man's mouth twisted into a smile as he walked towards the corner kitchen, and this time, the amusement was clear on his face. "I 'erd sheep," he said, and handed Bond a glass of water from a large can on the kitchen counter. He ignored the last half of Bond's question. 

Bond took the glass and turned away from the man, instead gazing out the glass doors which took up almost half the length of the wall. Outside, rock covered in patches of moss spread out before the house, sloping down until small gatherings of trees sprang up here and there, and ended in the calm blue waters of the lake by the foothills. It was quite a view, almost enough to make Bond understand why anyone would build a home here. However, there were no sheep. 

"You might consider investing in a sheepdog," he quipped, unable to stop himself. 

"You're a cocky boy, aren't you?" he heard from behind, voice colored with laughter — and the accent a pristine RP. 

Instinct took over. Bond swung his body around, dropping the glass from his hand and instead reaching into his suit jacket. But before he could touch the textured plastic of the grip, pain flashed across his cheek; he was backhanded, hard, and tasted blood as he gritted his teeth, preparing for the next blow. It came as he heard glass shatter, a sharp knee striking the side of his stomach as he was still turning to face the man, aiming to dig under his rib cage and reach his kidney. 

Bond laughed through clenched teeth. If there ever had been any doubt in his mind about this man being a civilian, this doubt was gone now. 

He kicked the floor and sprang back, his eyes meeting the man's gaze: steady and calm even as his leg swung up with enough force to deck a wrestler. Calculating the distance between them. Evaluating Bond's speed and reaction time. Observing his center of gravity. 

Bond knew he would be knocked over before it happened. His footing was poor; he was off-balance just slightly to the right. It would take him less than half a second to adjust, but this was half a second he could not afford. 

The wind was forced out of his lungs with a guttural groan as his legs were kicked out from under him and he landed on his side. Before he could make a motion to reach for his gun again, a heavy weight settled on top of him; his cheek was pressed into the cold flooring, his arms pulled back. He heard the pull of a zip tie, then another, and thin strips of hard plastic dug painfully into the skin of his wrists. 

"I do apologize for insulting your sheep husbandry," he said between deep drags of air, "but I believe you might be overreacting somewhat." 

The man mounting him laughed again. One hand grabbed his hair and lifted his upper body from the floor, another hand reaching under his body to retrieve the gun. Bond expected to be dropped unceremoniously to the floor again, but instead the fingers tightened in his hair and soft breathing brushed against his temple. 

The mouth was close enough for Bond to smell the hint of nicotine, and as the man spoke in his deep, throaty voice, Bond felt lips tease his ear. "You're a mouthy boy just begging to be reprimanded, aren't you?" 

Bond sucked in a quick breath and held it. Suddenly, everything seemed to become potent with a different meaning: the stinging of his cheek, the warmth of the man's breathing against his skin, the pelvis digging into his ass. It was absurd, almost farcical, and laughter built in Bond's throat, his face twisting into a genuine smile for the first time today. 

"What makes you think you're the man to do it." 

He dropped back onto the floor, his forehead slamming against the hardwood, hard enough to make him momentarily dizzy. A dull thud sounded to his right, then a clatter somewhere far off to his left. When he turned his head and squinted to focus his vision, he saw the black rectangle of his magazine lying on the floor; the PPK was gone. 

"Because as you might have observed, I know what I'm doing." 

Bond had to concede as much. 

The man grabbed Bond's bound arms and flipped him over. This time, Bond held his head steady and away from the floor, straining his neck to look up at the man now straddling his thighs: gone was the dim indifference, and in its place Bond saw intelligent eyes and a confident smile; replacing the lazy swagger was a straight back and square shoulders, betraying the man's formal military training. 

"What makes you a cocky boy," the man said, voice nonchalant as though they were having a conversation over a cup of tea. "Is not that you believe you can pass yourself off as a clerk from the Land Registry — while wearing a suit tailored at Savile Row." Fingers stroked down the lapels of Bond's jacket. "It's not even that you believe you can turn your back to me, since what harm could this old, unarmed man do?" The man flicked the lapels with a dismissive chuckle. "All of that merely makes you lazy." 

Just as Bond opened his mouth to tell the man thank you, but he was not in the market for unsolicited advice, he was slapped across the face. The snap of the wrist was efficient, quick, nearly imperceptible. Bond gasped; unlike the last hit to his cheek, meant to cause harm, this pain shot directly down his spine to his cock — and there it was again, across his other cheek, striking just hard enough to sting, then striking once more without pause, before the first pain had a chance to fade. His face burned and he clenched his teeth, refusing to let another gasp escape. 

"You do not speak until I tell you to." 

Blood rush to Bond's head in a pang of anger. He turned his head to glare up at the man, spit a few expletives at him, but instead his eyes widened as it fixed on the man's lifted hand, a mix of instinctive fear and perverse anticipation making the hairs on his nape stand up. Then his entire body shuddered in release as pain spread across his cheek, a strike hard enough to force Bond's mouth open and wring a raspy moan from his throat. 

"What makes you cocky is that you don't care." 

Bond blinked away the thin sheen of tears from his eyes and drew in a ragged breath. His cheeks throbbed with every beat of his heart — and as did his cock, pressing up against the cotton of his underwear, pain and pleasure synchronized with every rush of blood. His shirt clung to his back with sweat, his mouth was dry with adrenaline, and as he looked up and into the man's steady green eyes, his mind filled with just one thought: that hand, the hand of a double-O, and how deftly it might exploit and abuse his body, make it ache and burn until he couldn't breathe. 

"You believe you can get out of any situation alive, if only you shred enough blood on your way. And you enjoy it, just like you enjoy the pain." 

The words were banal. Nothing Bond hadn't been told by the MI6 therapist during one of his god-knows-how-many evaluations. His lips twitched, nearly telling the man as much. But his cock was throbbing desperately. 

"That's why you a such cocky, mouthy boy... you're asking for trouble, asking for pain." 

He should want to kill the man. He should want to strangle the words out of his throat. But it was too late. His mind had already rewired itself, signaling to his cock that pain was pleasure, and punishment a reward. 

"Do you need to be punished, James?" 

"Yes..." His voice came out as a raspy cough. " _Yes_." 

"Good boy." 

Bond breathed out a sigh and let his shoulders sag to the floor, tension leaving his body as his mind surrendered. Hands undid his belt, then his slacks, and Bond kicked off his own shoes, making the man looming over him chuckle. He didn't care. He wanted his cock free, he wanted his legs spread so far his joints ached, and he wanted those hands against his naked skin — his thighs, his ass, his balls, every patch of skin he knew would prickle for days after a good, thorough spanking. 

His slacks and underwear were pulled down in one rough tug, and Bond felt his cock pop up, half hard, head swollen. "Roll over," the man said as he pulled the clothing off Bond's lifted legs, and Bond complied, pushing himself up by the arms still tied behind his back. 

His cheek burned as he pressed his face to the floor. The glass doors were to his right, the early evening light shining through them and falling on his body, and his skin heated and tingled as he watched his own faint reflection get up on his knees, naked ass in the air, presenting himself to the fully clothed man kneeling behind him, in view of anyone who might pass by. 

He shifted his eyes and saw his cock, still half hard, poking through the slit at the bottom of his shirt. He rocked his hips slightly, fucking the air and the soft cotton; he had watched himself fuck women — in wardrobe mirrors of countless hotel rooms, reflected in full-wall windows against a backdrop of city lights, in the restroom mirrors of restaurants, bars, casinos — but never seen himself like this, waiting with shallow breathing to be touched, and hurt, and fucked. 

A warm palm cupped his ass and his body jerked forward instinctively before he could bring it back under control. The touch was gentle, almost a caress. It ran over his ass, down the inside of one thigh, then up the other. "Spread your legs," the man ordered, voice steady. Bond braced himself on his shoulders and carefully shifted his knees further apart, skin scraping against the hardwood as he moved. 

The voice was quiet, didn't tell him how much, or when to stop. Thoughts raced through Bond's head — Was this enough? Was he doing well? Would he be praised? Would he be punished? — and he only stopped when he knew he could no longer balance himself if he went further, his breathing even more shallow as his joints ached from the strain. Cool air brushed between his thighs and cheeks, reminding him of just how exposed he was, everything from the cock swinging between his legs to his clenched asshole in plain view. 

His body jerked again at the sudden touch of fingers brushing over his taint. He heard a low, nasal moan; it took him a moment to realize it was his own voice, uncontrollable little noises escaping his throat as the fingers softly teased the ridge down to his tightening balls, sending a tingle of pleasure up the length of his cock. Blood rushed to it, made it grow heavier, and his hips shifted again, instinctively seeking something warm and wet and tight to bury himself in. 

Instead, a hot tongue licked a line up Bond's taint to his hole. His mouth fell open and his back arched more than he thought possible, pushing his ass up against that strong, wet muscle rubbing over his most sensitive skin, incoherent gasps and moans falling from his lips as his entire body flushed. His still untouched cock curved up towards his stomach, hard and full and ready, and Bond tugged against the restraints behind his back, muttering obscenities as saliva ran down his chin to the floor under him. 

The tongue slipped away and two spit-slick fingers pushed into Bond's ass, easily spreading him open until they were knuckles-deep, and Bond felt them bend and prod inside him, as if to see how far he would stretch. He was barely given a moment to adjust before another finger forced its way in, and he gritted his teeth to stop his hips from trying to escape, his sphincter throbbing in beat with the blood rushing to his groin. 

Bond opened his mouth and drew in a deep breath. "Just bloody _fuck me_ already!" 

As if on cue, a large hand landed squarely on his ass. A hot flash of pain spread across his cheek and every muscle in his body tensed as he let out a broken yell, his ass clamping down uncontrollably on the fingers inside him, everything from his hole to the head of his cock one large erogenous zone set on fire. 

"Did I tell you to speak?" 

"No, no," he gasped, and another blow hit him, this time lower, across his thigh. His hips trembled as the fingers relentlessly rubbed his insides, his hole twitching and squeezing down on the knuckles again and again, his body slipping out of his control. _You fucking cunt,_ his mind screamed, but his lips and tongue only quivered, nasal moans slipping unstoppably from his wet mouth. 

Another blow, just where his thigh met his ass, sending a whiff of cold air across his balls. Then another, in the same spot as his first, pain on pain. His skin tingled and his ass was squeezed so tight around the fingers, he irrationally worried he'd never get them out. A bead of pre-come formed at the tip of his cock — and fell to the floor as one final blow to the back of his thigh shook his body. 

"Do tell me what you want, James." 

The words were so casual it took him several seconds to realize it was a permission. His tongue was swollen and dull in his mouth as he wriggled it, trying to form words. 

"Fuck me." _Bloody get on with it,_ he swallowed. "Please." 

A hand ran over his sore ass, thumb circling probably reddening skin. "Is that all?" 

He blinked rapidly at the question. His mind was even duller than his tongue, as blurred as his vision. What did he want? His balls were full of come and his cock was rock hard and leaking, he could come mounting a chair like a dog; but his body, every inch of it aching and burning, wanted orgasm wrung out of him from the inside, the heavy thickness of an engorged cock buried so deep in him he was unable to tell if it was pain or pleasure. 

"Fuck me like I'm a hole." His voice was a raspy whisper. "Make me feel your cock inside me for days." 

The fingers slipped out of his ass and Bond slumped, unable to keep himself up. For a moment he wondered if the man behind him was even aroused, a chuckle bubbling in his throat at the thought of how ridiculous he might look, ass up and begging for cock from a man who wasn't even hard — but then hands grabbed his hips and pulled him up, and the unmistakable shape of a thick cockhead pressed against his still throbbing hole. 

"Oh..." he sighed as a shudder of anticipation ran up his spine from his ass to the base of his skull, his body twitching as though a current shot through it. Then his sigh turned into a long, keening moan: the cock pushed in, the head spreading him open wider than the fingers and rubbing against his inside so deliciously as it sank into him, forcing shuddering breaths from his mouth with every inch. It was long, curving up towards Bond's back, and his insides yielded eagerly to the invasion, his body being molded to take it and hold it and milk it. 

His hips were kept immobile by the hands grabbing his ass, fingers digging into his firm flesh. His head was blank, any quips he might have been saving wiped from his mind, his entire being focused on one, simple goal: opening himself up to be filled. 

Bond was almost disappointed when balls finally pressed to his ass. It was done, the entire length was in him as deep as it would go. His body clenched down on it, feeling its thickness against his stretched, twitching sphincter; his own cock leaked another droplet onto the floor at how its heavy length rested so snugly inside him. 

The body behind him pressed down on Bond's back as the man leaned in and nuzzled the hairs stuck to Bond's nape with sweat. "Good boy," he said, and Bond trembled at the soft, deep voice vibrating through his body, and at how the cock grinded against him, pushing in impossibly deeper. 

"Please," he muttered. The weight lifted from his back and he felt fingers knead the flesh of his ass, almost as if the man was considering what to do next. He opened his mouth to beg for something, anything, he didn't even know what, but before he could speak the cock moved inside him, pulling out, dragging that sweet head over his insides again, and Bond let out a loud yell as a hand slapped his ass, forcing his muscles to clamp down on the cock, making him feel its shape so vividly as it rubbed against his swollen, throbbing hole on its way out. 

The thick head pulled against Bond's sphincter from the inside, and he tried to catch his breath, expecting a beat before it pushed back in; but there was none, and with another hard slap against his cheek the cock sank in, the thrust faster than before, so hard and unrelenting it made Bond's head spin even as his ass squeezed hungrily down on it, the noises coming from his mouth hardly moans anymore, just animalistic grunts. 

And then the cock pulled out. Bond barely understood what had happened as his body sagged again, the underside of his wet cock pressing against the floor under him and cold air brushing over his spread ass and thighs. "What—" he managed, then heard the sharp sound of a blade sliding out of a sheath. A folding knife. Its cool metal pressed against his wrists and with two pops his arms were free, falling numbly to his sides. 

His heart thumped loudly in his ears and his chest heaved against the floor. His legs quivered under him, knees sore and thighs strained. Blood rushed back to his arms, making him grimace as his skin began to prickle. His hole throbbed at the loss, squeezing down on nothing. His cock twitched. 

He pushed himself up and rolled over on his back. His firm, naked thighs were covered in a thin sheen of sweat, and from between them, his cock shot up into the air, curving towards his stomach. He ran his eyes over the bulging veins and exposed head, and watched as a thick drop of pre-come slowly dripped down onto his sweat-soaked shirt. 

The man was in the chair. Bond's tongue darted over his bottom lip at the sight of the cock, erect and glistering, standing up from the open fly of the man's jeans; that thick head had spread his hole, that entire length had buried itself in him. "Undress yourself," the man said simply, the smile on his lips almost indulgent. 

Bond fumbled with still half-numb fingers to undo the small, smooth buttons of his dress shirt. The fabric stuck to his skin with sweat, the shape and color of his hard nipples showing under the wet cotton, and as he peeled back the shirt from his torso, goosebumps raised along his skin from contact with the cool air. 

He gingerly pushed himself up on his knees and faced the man reclined into the leather cushions. The man's body was relaxed, long legs thrown out in front of him and hands casually resting on the teak armrests. Only his cock gave away that this was not an ordinary Saturday morning — his cock, and those green eyes piercing into Bond's, sharply intelligent and alert. 

Bond let his shirt and jacket slip off his shoulders and crawled towards the man, fixing his eyes on the length of the cock and letting his lips part, not even bothering to hide what, exactly, he wanted. "Come here," the man said with a deep chuckle, and Bond obeyed, climbing onto the chair and kneeling with his thighs on each side of the man's legs. 

The man didn't touch him, instead raising a hand and resting his cheek against his knuckles, observing Bond with steady eyes. "You're a good boy who knows what he can and can't touch, aren't you?" he said, and Bond nodded, his cock bobbing up and down along with his head. "Be a good boy and show me exactly what you want, then." 

Bond's breathing grew quicker just from those words. His tongue darted out and licked at his dry lips incessantly as his hands, finally free to explore, reached behind him and touched the man's cock, running up its shaft along the ridge on its underside, the subtle throbbing of the veins, the bulge of the glans. He then lowered his hips, anticipation making his hands tremble just slightly. 

Bond's eyes fluttered closed when the thick head pressed against his still wet hole. Short gasps came from his slack-jawed mouth as he lowered himself onto the cock, one shaky hand holding the shaft while his other hand grabbed an armrest, steadying himself as shuddering pleasure shot up his back, his hole so tight around the engorged flesh, so much tighter than before as all his muscles tensed to keep his body upright. Still he kept lowering himself onto it, chasing that feeling of balls pressing against his ass, the knowledge that he was stuffed full. 

He fell forward with a throaty moan as the cock sank in that last inch. His forehead rested against the man's soft V-neck, but his arm was still reaching behind him, fingers running over the base of the man's cock and his own stretched ass, both throbbing and twitching. It made him dizzy, made him imagining how he must look, and he wished so badly that he could see himself reflected in the glass doors. 

His ass, spanked red, wantonly swallowing the cock of a man who could easily have put a bullet between his eyes just a few minutes ago. 

Bond swallowed, although his mouth and throat were dried up from the adrenaline rushing through his system. When he raised his head and looked into the man's face, he saw the green eyes were darker, that the thin lips were parted and the tip of a tongue teased between them. Bond chuckled to himself, pleased; he would make this man come, and he knew it would be _so_ good to watch this man's face twist in orgasm as the cock jerked and smeared come inside him. 

He grabbed the armrests with both hands and lifted his hips, his voice breaking as the shaft rubbed over his hole and the cockhead dragged over his prostate. It was fucking perfect. He shook his hips in short little jerks, the cock inside him curved in towards his belly now, hitting that spot over and over, making him squeeze on the cock as his body shuddered and every patch of his skin felt like it had been set on fire. His cock bobbed up and down between them, untouched but hard, leaking shiny strands of pre-come over the man's dark clothing. Every time he sank his hips down and the cock rubbed against his inside, a tingle of pleasure shot up to the tip of his cock, almost like little orgasms. 

He knew he was loud, he knew the words and noises coming from his open mouth were obscene and ridiculous, but he was far beyond keeping up the appearances of a gruff, repressed secret agent. "So fucking good," he gasped, barely able to keep his eyes open, and threw his head back with another loud yell as large hands grabbed his ass again, forcing him down all the way into the man's lap, tight balls pressing against his hole hard enough to make him wonder if they would push inside, too. The thought made lights spark in front of his eyes. 

"Fuck me," he said again, but this time there were no reservations, no bitten back remark. He was rewarded with a brutal thrust, forcing his body forward and making him grab onto the man's shoulders to keep his balance. Wet noises and the slapping of skin against skin came between them as Bond met the deep, almost bruising thrusts, his hole willing and open and so sensitive to any touch now, he thought maybe he could come like this, his ass squeezing down on a cock like it was a cunt. 

The man leaned closer and brushed his lips over Bond's ear. "There," he said, and that was all; Bond furrowed his brows for a moment but then felt it, the come filling him and oozing out of him as the still-hard cock kept fucking him, pushing the thick liquid in then out of him. He was soaked, making wet noises as he grinded down, not wanting it to be over yet, wanting to get fucked like this, another hard cock thrusting into his filled hole as come trickled down his thighs. His balls tightened and his cock jerked and twitched, leaking down his shaft, so close but not quite there, a maddening edge. 

Long fingers curled around his cock, just under the head, and pulled. That was it. Bond dug his fingers into the man's shoulders and let his back arch as he came; his entire body convulsed as pleasure shot out to his extremities, his vision going white, his cock coming in gushes that landed across his face and dripping down his jaw. 

The softening cock was still in his ass and he squeezed, a small aftershock of pleasure teasing through his cock and spine, making him let out a deep, satisfied moan. He wanted to stay like this, wait for the cock to grow and harden in him, get fucked again and again until he forgot what it felt to not have a cock in him. 

But the hands on his ass lifted him and slipped the cock out, and Bond's lethargic body was lowered to the floor. He lay there, eyes still blurry, and ran his hand down the come-soaked skin of his inner thighs, listening to footsteps leaving the room and the noise of running water. When the man came back into the room and approached him, now wearing a worn white tee-shirt, Bond smirked up at him. 

"Your refractory period is too long." 

The man raised one eyebrow and tossed a wet cloth, dark blue sweater, and a pair of underwear at Bond, then turned around and headed for the kitchen. 

Bond laughed and sat up. The sweater smelled of fresh laundry and the white underwear were new. He put both on slowly, the joints of his shoulders and hips aching as he moved. He ignored the cloth. 

"M wants to see you," he said as he pushed himself up on his feet and joined the man in the kitchen. A glass of water and a steaming mug of tea sat on the counter next to where the man stood, hip resting against the sink with a mug in his hand. Bond drank the water in one gulp. "If you'd rather she didn't disturb your otium, such as it is, you might want to concoct a better cover. It hardly took me three days to track you, it's a wonder you haven't turned up in some ditch, shot execution style." 

The man didn't reply, instead turning towards Bond and cupping his face with one hand. His fingers ran over Bond's eyebrows, the bridge of his nose, his cupid's bow, the small dimple on his chin. "James Bond," he whispered, and chuckled as though the name was the punchline to an old joke he had just remembered. "The size of your ego certainly matches your designation." 

Bond stared back at him. 

"I assume you tracked me from the crumbs I left at the office." 

Realization flashed in Bond's mind as he remembered the two names that had slipped out of the manila folder Tanner had handed him. "You left those aliases there," he said, his voice somewhere between indignation and laughter. "What a cocky bastard you are." 

The man smiled, his hand slipping from Bond's face with one last caress of his cheekbone. "Comes with the job," he said, and Bond felt hot breath and then a hot tongue against his skin, licking up a line from his jaw to his cheek — licking Bond's come off him. His cock twitched and he opened his mouth, letting the tongue slide in and rub against his own tongue; he sucked on it, chasing the taste, wishing there was more. 

"As does this, apparently," Bond said, lips still sucking on lips as he reached down to grab the man's flaccid cock through the denim. "Do tell, are all double-Os horny bastards ready to bugger the bloody hell out of any random mark who trails them?" The man laughed and nibbled on Bond's bottom lip. "You'd think M would have warned me about this." 

The man's lips grinned against him. "Are we complaining?" 

"Not in the slightest." 

Bond tore his mouth away with a groan of regret and slipped to his knees, face inches from the man's crotch. He undid the fly of the jeans, then hooked his thumbs into the waistband, pulling them down along with the underwear, revealing a soft, clean cock nestled in dark blond curls. He ran the tip of his nose over the length of it, breathing in the subtle smell of soap, nuzzling it as he let out little moans of appreciation. "You know," he said, lifting his chin to gaze up at the man, "everyone who knows me agrees that talking is the least productive use for my mouth." 

The man looked back at him with a glimmer in his eyes that Bond could almost mistake for fondness. "You don't say." Fingers tangled in his hair. 

"She doesn't expect me back until Monday." He cast his eyes down on the cock again, saliva filling his mouth as he imagined parting his lips and taking it to the hilt. His cock was hard again, his breathing hot. He looked back up. "Plenty of time for you to cover every bit of my skin with come." 

Wordlessly the man pulled on his hair, just enough to hurt, just enough to urge his mouth open. Bond let his mouth be filled, the soft, heavy flesh resting against his tongue, and he started to suck, his mind dizzy with possibilities. 


End file.
